I have read of those who burn their letters
Perhaps at death or verge of war or other extremis
I can only conjecture as one
Who never fully found communion with a woman
And failed for lack of sex when it was mine
That the union was so perfect and sublime
When lost there was nothing left – not even history
But papers conversion to living flame
In appropriate memorial and fair well
For what had been and voyeur eyes denied.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem